


you've set my soul to dreaming

by we_are_the_same



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Christmas, Established Zayn Malik/Liam Payne, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, No Smut, Pining, Strangers to Lovers, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21510730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_are_the_same/pseuds/we_are_the_same
Summary: At first, when Harry wakes up on Christmas Morning with a warm body in his bed he wonders if he pulled someone last night. He’d met some friends at the pub, none of them really having anyone to spend Christmas Eve with, and he knows he might’ve had a few drinks to numb the loneliness for a while, but he didn’tthinkhe got that drunk that he’d ended up pulling someone and forgetting all about it.Or: Thirty year old Harry Styles goes to bed single on Christmas Eve, only to wake up on Christmas morning with a husband in his bed and a son down the hall.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 137
Kudos: 809
Collections: 1D Christmas Fest





	you've set my soul to dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely mods for hosting this fest!
> 
> Thank you to [Caroline](https://vampirelarrie.tumblr.com/) and [Pam](https://lt2019.tumblr.com/), who have been amazing as usual, and whose comments always make me smile. And thank you to Caroline especially for picking the prompt for this fic! It's a good thing you're so easy to bribe :D
> 
> Thank you to [Emmi](https://londonfoginacup.tumblr.com/) for basically being the reason I still write today.
> 
> And thank you to [Sarah](https://lightwoodsmagic.tumblr.com/) who is just a sweet, encouraging human being and who helped me out massively with the moodboard for this fic.
> 
> Lastly, thank you to [End1essly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/end1essly/pseuds/end1essly) who sent in this prompt, I had a blast writing it.

At first, when Harry wakes up on Christmas Morning with a warm body in his bed he wonders if he pulled someone last night. He’d met some friends at the pub, none of them really having anyone to spend Christmas Eve with, and he knows he might’ve had a few drinks to numb the loneliness for a while, but he didn’t _think_ he got that drunk that he’d ended up pulling someone and forgetting all about it.

The warm body is very much real though, and very much wrapped around Harry in a way that speaks of familiarity, and Harry wonders if it’s one of his mates, though they’ve never ended up cuddling like this. Which is a shame, really, because Harry was big on cuddling, and ever since his last relationship ended he has been missing out on physical affection. Not even the sex part, which is the main reason he’s surprised by the fact that there’s someone in his bed. Harry’s long over the hookups, and if that makes him sound sad, well, he’s thirty and still single and it feels so good to be held that part of Harry doesn’t _care_ who it is that’s spooning him.

If he just keeps his eyes closed and pretends to still be asleep he doesn’t have to say goodbye to it for a moment longer, he tells himself, but just then he hears a soft cry down the hall.

And that. That sounds like a _child_. Harry opens his eyes but he _is_ in his bedroom, and, okay, things are getting weird now. 

Before he can start to (properly) freak out, there’s a sleepy kiss pressed to his shoulder, stubble scratching deliciously against his skin. There’s a voice, raspy and wonderful, both in timbre and tone, and the arm around his waist tightens. “It’s your turn,” the voice says, and the laugh that follows settles deep and warm under Harry’s breastbone. “You wore me out last night. Happy birthday to _me_.” 

None of this makes sense, least of all the way Harry automatically responds to that voice, finds himself climbing out of bed and heading into the hallway, easily finding the source of the crying. It turns out to be a toddler, standing up in his little bed, hairs sticking out every which way, one who lights up when Harry enters the room. He warbles out something that Harry doesn’t understand, but in the mess of consonants and vowels Harry is somehow not completely shocked to hear _dada_. 

The toddler stretches out his arms and looks mighty expectant, so Harry finds himself picking him up before he’s fully thought it through. It’s not until he has a _living, breathing child_ in his arms that seems to recognize him that he starts freaking out.

Harry loves children. Of all ages, but there’s something especially wonderful about the little ones, the ones that go soft and cuddly in his arms - like the twins Gemma has - and that tug at his curls and try to call him Uncle Harry but that mostly comes out as Ukel Hawwy. He likes being Ukel Hawwy, but this kid calls him _dada_ and there’s a man in his bed that touches him with such familiarity and what is going on? 

How _much_ did he drink last night? Is he still asleep? Still dreaming? It feels real, the weight of the baby solid in his arms. And there’s a particular smell that tells him exactly why the toddler was crying too. Harry’s never really smelled anything in dreams before, and when he puts the baby down and it tugs at his hair he feels a shooting pain that sort of makes him feel like this just might be _real_.

Which would make it extremely fucked up, because Harry doesn’t know who either of these two people in his house are, and, does he have amnesia perhaps?

He changes the baby, thankful for the times Gemma has had him babysit and help out, and then puts him back in his bed, before wandering out of the room and towards the kitchen, where he knows he keeps a calendar.

It’s still there, but it’s not the same, even if the date on the top of the calendar tells him that it is in fact the 25th of December 2019, which means Harry _did_ go to bed painfully single just _yesterday,_ and thus it’s literally impossible that he hit his head hard enough to have amnesia and forget all about the fact that he apparently has a kid and a boyfriend in his bed. He pinches himself just to be sure that he’s not dreaming, then stares at his hand for a moment when the movement makes something catch the light on his finger. Right. Not boyfriend. _Husband_.

He looks back up at the calendar, finds his name in one column, _Louis_ written above the second column. There’s a third column, and Harry finds something ache in his stomach. _Miles_ it says. God, he hopes that whatever Louis’ last name is, their baby (THEIR BABY) has it too. Because naming a baby Miles Styles is just awful, and Harry wonders if this isn’t a dream after all, because this seems just like the kind of over the top thing that happens in dreams.

But then there are warm arms sliding around his waist and a kiss is pressed to his shoulder blade again, and that same raspy voice (Louis’ voice) tells him “What are you doing in the kitchen, love? Let’s get back to bed. It’s early yet.” 

"Louis?" Harry asks him, and Louis makes a grumpy sort of noise.

"Why're you calling me that?" He says, pronouncing his name the way Harry had - Lewis. "Is it because I made you get up for Miles? I was mostly joking." He stays nuzzled against Harry's back, and Harry finds his hand covering the two that are on his bare stomach.

"Louis." He says instead, pronouncing it the French way, and there's a rush of warmth that comes with getting his name right. With the sleepy cuddle that's going on in his kitchen right now and the easy way they sort of sway together. 

Louis presses another kiss to his shoulder. "Come back to bed," he murmurs, and Harry is helpless against that voice. So he follows, wondering what will happen if he ends up falling asleep again. Will he wake up on his own? 

He doesn't want to take the risk, even if he knows he can't stay here, that if he isn't dreaming he's landed himself in some strange alternate universe where he's somehow managed to get everything he's wanted for so long now. But that would also mean that there's a Harry that belongs in this universe, and _that_ Harry might be waking up in _his_ reality soon, alone when he expects to have his husband by his side.

It hurts, thinking about it, both his heart _and_ his head, when it's a little much to wrap his head around first thing in the morning. It's easier to pretend this is just a dream and the only heart he'll be breaking is his own when he wakes up in his own reality.

But he is still selfish enough to stay awake while Louis slumbers beside him, his nose pressed up to Harry's arm and his mouth slightly opened which should be unattractive but which still somehow manages to make his heart ache. Objectively, Harry is very lucky with a man like Louis. He is every bit his type, physically speaking. He can't really say anything about whether they're compatible personality wise, but unless alternate reality Harry is a completely different person (oh God, what if he _is_ and Louis realizes?) he can't see himself marrying someone that isn't exactly his type. It's why he's been single for so long. He's just never understood giving his heart away to someone he couldn't see it working out with. 

For a while, Harry actually tries to figure out what’s going on here. Louis is asleep, occasionally letting out these soft snores, which oddly enough help him think, even if the topic alone is enough to give him a headache.

On the one hand, he knows that he can’t actually be in an alternate reality, because that sort of thing doesn’t really exist, and so this has to be just a dream. Knowing that it’s only a dream should be a relief but it also comes with its own depressing realization: Louis is a figment of Harry's imagination. It makes sense. Part of Harry just wishes it didn't.

The thing is though, as much as Harry knows there is no other explanation, it doesn’t feel like a dream, for one, because he doesn’t have any of the memories that he’d somehow expect to come with the scenario if his head is the one responsible for it. And he also can’t remember ever dreaming so vividly, and feeling so completely in control. So as crazy as it sounds, this _must_ be some sort of alternate universe.

The one thing that fully tips the scales from the possibility of this being a dream to the realization that he must have landed himself in an alternate universe is this though: he doesn’t think he could ever dream up someone like Louis. 

So, since he’s apparently traveled to a different reality right now, it feels weird just going along like there’s nothing out of the ordinary happening. Because he would end up taking advantage of Louis by allowing him to kiss him when Louis doesn’t know Harry isn’t his real husband. 

For a moment Harry wonders if maybe he should go to sleep, if only because then he doesn’t feel like an absolute creep for appreciating the warmth of a body in his bed. But even when he tries, he can’t quite manage to drift off, now that he’s started thinking about the situation he’s in. He feels torn, between wishing this would never end and sort of wishing that it _did_ because he knows that this isn’t real and it isn’t his to keep. 

This isn’t his life, and he isn’t sure why it suddenly is, because it’s not like Harry didn’t already know he wanted this. He has known he wants a family ever since he was barely out of school, and while it was abstract at first, it’s become something he’s daydreamed about much more frequently in the last couple of years. He wants everything that is presented to him in this reality. A husband, a child, the dog that Harry hadn’t noticed before but that eagerly runs into the bedroom and jumps up on the bed when Louis (who had woken up sometime in the midst of Harry’s internal crisis, and who had kissed his shoulder and mumbled something about needing the loo) opens the door on his way to the bathroom. Harry holds his breath for a moment, unsure of if the animal will recognize that his owner is perhaps not quite his owner, but it just licks a large, wet stripe up his face and Harry shrieks even as he laughs. 

Louis laughs too, and Harry’s eyes meet his, find him still leaned in the doorway, hip pressed against the frame. “You better scrub your face before you make food, because I’m not kissing you to say thanks for the Christmas breakfast when Cliff’s just tried to french you.” He warns Harry, and Harry feels his resolve to steer clear of having to play along waver with the warmth in Louis’ eyes. 

What’s the worst that can happen if he does play along? He gets a nice Christmas out of it, and then wakes up in his own house, maybe on Christmas day or maybe on Boxing Day - Harry can’t imagine staying any longer than the amount of time between when he went to bed last night and when he’ll retire for the night tonight - alone, and finds a way to forget about everything that has happened. 

The alternative, locking himself away in this bedroom, pretending that he hadn’t just woken up with a family that he knew nothing about, seems impractical after all. More than that, it seems like something that would hurt Louis, and little Miles, and possibly even Cliff - who is still enthusiastically slobbering all over Harry’s hands whenever Harry forgets to pet him. 

He can do this. It’s just a day. 

*

The thing is, he’s not sure how he’s supposed to keep from kissing Louis when Louis is so extremely kissable. He’s also extremely handsy, because Harry’s barely made his way to the kitchen (after scrubbing his face, not because he hopes to kiss Louis but because he prefers not being covered in dog slobber) before there are arms around his waist and lips pressed to his shoulder blade. Harry sort of leans into it a little bit, because sue him, he’s not made of stone. Louis is extremely attractive, and wonderfully soft, and Harry wants to be able to have this, or something like it, in his actual life. 

When “What do you want for breakfast?” is answered with _are you an option_ he realizes just how much trouble he’s in today though.

He chuckles, rests a hand on the one on his waist. “Don’t distract me.” He stays sternly, and he can feel Louis hum against his skin.

“I wouldn’t dare. Not after what happened last time.”

It’s something this universe’s Harry would chuckle about, Harry thinks, so he does. “Right,” he says, finding to his relief that it doesn’t sound quite as hollow as he expected it to. “The works then?” He used to make Christmas breakfast at his parents’ place, and after that for his mates in college, so he’s reasonably sure he would have continued that tradition.

Louis hums. “As much as I’d love that, I don’t think I can take having a big breakfast on top of the lunch your mum’s expecting us to come round for. ‘M not as young as I used to be, love, my metabolism’s slowed down.” 

Harry turns around and arches an eyebrow, because Louis sounds serious but he looks extremely fit, and something about the look in Harry’s eyes makes Louis laugh. “Oy, you could at least _pretend_ to take me seriously.” There’s warmth in his eyes, his hand now on Harry’s chest, resting over his ribcage. “Though I’m not complaining about the way you look at me. Still.” He leans up, and Harry dimly registers that he has to tiptoe just the slightest bit, before there are soft, yet slightly chapped lips pressed to his. Stubble scratches at his chin, and it’s all just this side of too real to be perfect, but yet perfect’s the only way that comes close to describing what it feels like.

Or would, if Harry hadn’t somehow baited a complete stranger into kissing him, by pretending to be his husband. Which is all sorts of wrong, really. He shifts a bit, so Louis’ second kiss lands on his cheek instead. It earns him a surprised sort of look, and he grimaces. _Subtle, Styles_ , he scolds himself. “Haven’t brushed my teeth yet.” He mumbles, and Louis’ mouth curves up into a grin.

“Since when are you so modest?” He teases, but he lets him go, just presses another kiss to his bare shoulders. “Since you’re so set on breakfast, instead of, oh, I don’t know, _kissing_ me, I’ll make us tea, and you can maybe whip up some pancakes?” He bats his lashes like any Harry in the history of the universe wouldn’t already be powerless to Louis’ requests, and all Harry can think to do is blow him a kiss.

It’s easier when he can focus on breakfast, because although Louis apparently has something against getting dressed - and Harry can appreciate that on multiple levels really, he too has a penchant for walking around with as little clothes as possible - he can worry about flour and eggs and making sure Louis doesn’t steal the fruit or chocolate chips Harry’s got laid out on the counter. At some point, Louis gives up on trying to steal breakfast before it’s ready, and leaves the room, and for a moment Harry worries that he’s done something to annoy him until one of the most beautiful sights in the world walks right into his living room.

His husband holding a baby.

Louis comes in carrying a sleepy Miles on his hip, and Harry’s heart aches so much he can barely stand it. He ducks his head to quickly look at his pancakes again, but keeps stealing glances at an oblivious Louis, who sits Miles down in his toddler seat and brushes a kiss over his forehead. It’s all so domestic in the very best way, and Harry sort of wants to cry as much as he wants to freeze frame this moment. He also doesn’t think he’s ever been more attracted to anyone in his life, which is a problem.

Because Louis only has to look up at him to see it, and the moment he does he smiles and comes over and presses himself to Harry’s side, a hand at his back and his face tilted up for a kiss. Harry tries not to panic, but then he also tries not to kiss him, _and_ not to let Louis on to the fact that something’s wrong, and he’s pretty sure he’s failing at at least one of those. 

“The teeth thing still?” Louis asks, but while there is amusement in his voice it’s also quiet, like he’s not entirely sure that Harry’s telling the truth. 

Harry opens his mouth to say something, then ends up just grimacing and making a sound, and Louis frowns, but pulls away, which is exactly what Harry wants while also being the complete opposite. “Sorry,” he tells him, “I’ve woken up funny today. Feeling - I don’t know. Like I don’t belong here.”

Apparently one thing is true across all universes and that’s that Harry still tends to say completely the right thing in the completely wrong way. Because the words have barely left his mouth when Harry can _see_ the shutters go down in Louis’ mind, and isn’t that weird, how he doesn’t know him but he knows him? “Not- not with you,” he stutters, finds himself reaching out for Louis to stop him leaving his side. “Like-” he swallows. “Being with you is probably the thing that would make the most sense in any universe,” he’s not quite sure what he’s saying and from the look on Louis’ face it’s possibly a whole load of shit, but he tries. “Just. Woke up this morning, saw you, saw Miles, couldn’t really believe that this was my life, you know? That I’d get to have a family, and feel this happy.” It’s the closest to the truth he can come without telling him he accidentally traveled into a completely different universe. And if he did say that, he doesn’t think Louis would believe him.

Louis makes this scrunchy face that Harry reluctantly has to admit is very familiar, because he’s seen himself do it on camera a million times, and his heart aches, because they’ve been together long enough to pick up on each other’s habits. It’s so much cuter when Louis does it though, even though he still sort of looks exasperated with Harry. “You freaked me out there for a moment,” he says softly, and Harry bites his lip. “I love you too, you git.” He shifts towards him again, his hand automatically finding the dip of his spine. “And you do belong here. With me. With us. Always.”

Oh, how Harry wishes that were true.

*

The thing is.. Being with Louis is _easy_. Being with him and Miles, it’s seamless, like they’ve always been meant to be a part of Harry’s life, and he has to keep reminding himself that just yesterday he woke up alone, lamenting his single life. It’s so easy to forget when it feels so natural to have Louis rest a hand on his back, when Miles gurgles at him and clearly adores him and _has his eyes_. Harry doesn’t even mind the fact that he ends up wearing half of Miles’ breakfast, because he can always take a shower later - though by the look in Louis’ eyes he’ll have to be careful or he won’t end up alone in there. 

There’s a part of Harry that’s wondering how bad it would be to let things happen as they want to, but he knows he’d never forgive himself, as much as part of him feels like it’d be natural between them. They’re so comfortable around one another - at least, Louis is, and Harry’s never really been shy with physical touch so he doesn’t mind the tactileness - that he can’t help but feel it would just work, somehow. 

Part of him wants to ask Louis how they met, wants to know what he can do to make sure that this is something he can have in his life, but that’d be an odd conversation to have, and anyway, he isn’t sure he’ll even have the time. Between breakfast and Miles and getting ready for lunch at his mum’s place they don’t have that much time to themselves. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Lunch ends up being anything but a quiet affair, because aside from his mum and her husband, Gemma brought her husband and their twins, and of course, Louis and Miles are there as well. Harry isn’t sure at first what to expect, but everything’s the same as it’s always been. It’s still the same Gemma, the same husband Harry’s known for three years now, and the same twins he’s babysat practically since they were born. The only difference is that now he isn’t reminded of how painfully single he is, of how badly he wants a family just like his mum and his sister have. 

It’s nice, is what it is. Nice and easy and perfect and Harry never wants to wake up in a universe where he doesn’t know a Louis Tomlinson-Styles. 

*

They get home around four, and once they’ve put Miles down for a nap Louis starts pulling boxes into the living room, that Harry notices for the first time is bare of any Christmas decoration. He thinks the only reason he hadn’t noticed before is because it’s pretty much the same in his own house. With no one coming over for Christmas it didn’t make that much sense to decorate, especially since he was out of the house for most of the holiday. 

It’s a little strange though, that they’re only decorating now, when it’s already Christmas, but then he’s reminded of the fact that it was Louis’ birthday yesterday, and it sort of makes sense. He can tell it’s a tradition, by the way that Louis moves through the rooms so easily, bringing in boxes and putting on Christmas music that he sings along to as he carefully strings lights into the tree. Harry just stares at him for a moment, is caught at it of course, when Louis throws him a smile over his shoulder and nods towards a box. “This tree isn’t going to decorate itself, Styles.” He tells him, and Harry bites his lip but still can’t stop himself from smiling back.

“Excuse me, that’s Tomlinson-Styles to you,” he responds, and Louis snorts, wraps a bit of tinsel around Harry’s neck and uses that to pull him in. 

“Why is it that that still turns me on when we’ve been married for two years?” Louis asks, and Harry finds his hands automatically landing on Louis’ hips, swaying with him to the sound of _All I want for Christmas is you_. “How’d I get so lucky?”

Harry wishes he knew. Because maybe then when he wakes up alone tomorrow morning he’ll find a way to recreate it. Maybe this can be in his future somehow. Something about that must show on his face because Louis rests a hand against his cheek, thumb brushing over the soft skin under his eye. “Hey,” he says quietly, mirth replaced by a gentle worry. “Are you alright?”

Harry doesn’t know what to do except press a kiss to the inside of Louis’ palm. “Yeah,” he says, because he is and he isn’t but that’s too complicated to explain. “Just...lucky. ‘M so lucky, Lou, to have you. I don’t know what I did to deserve this.” He swallows. “I don’t ever want to lose this.” 

He’d known he wanted a family. He just hadn’t known he wanted _this_ family. 

“You won’t.” Louis assures him, and Harry has no choice but to believe the look in his eyes. “Don’t you remember what we said in our vows? What we have, darling, that’s _fate_. I’d find you in any universe, and not let you go in a single one.”

Harry closes his eyes for a moment, to hold back tears and to really let those words sink in, and before he can open them there’s chapped lips softly pressing against his own. Louis’ hand slides down his side to tangle with his own, and there’s a gentle squeeze to his fingers. “C’mon,” Louis says, and Harry is yet to open his eyes but maybe if he doesn’t this moment doesn’t have to end. “Christmas is no time for tears. Let’s decorate. Remember the plan, we’re not stopping until this room looks like Santa barfed in here.”

And that -- that should ruin the tenderness, Harry thinks. But it doesn’t. Somehow, even when Louis has literally used the word _barfed_ , the moment isn’t ruined, and Harry thinks that must mean this is true love.

He opens his eyes, sees the fondness in Louis’ blue ones, and smiles. “I love you,” he says almost automatically, and Louis shrugs, but his smile widens and his eyes seem an even deeper blue than a moment ago. 

“I know.” He says, and Harry can’t help but laugh. But because it’s Louis and Louis is apparently perfect, he squeezes Harry’s hand again, and brushes a kiss over his jaw. “I love you too.”

*

By the time they’ve finished decorating it’s almost six thirty and Miles is making these soft little sounds that Harry inexplicably knows will turn into full on crying if he doesn’t get attention anytime soon. He hangs up the last bit of decoration - mistletoe above the entrance to the living room - as Louis shoves the now empty cardboard boxes back into the hallway closet, watches him as he stretches out and rubs his back. 

“Sore?” Harry asks, and Louis nods, but he’s smiling, and Harry smiles back. “Why don’t you sit down for a bit. I’ll get Miles out of bed and make us a cup of tea.”

Louis smiles wider at that, and presses a soft kiss to Harry’s cheek as he squeezes by him on his way into the living room. “Best husband ever,” he announces, and for a moment Harry wants nothing more than to tuck him under his chin and hold him close. Instead he answers the call of an increasingly upset little boy, and brings him into the living room in his cute Christmas elf pj’s. Watching Louis light up at seeing his son, watching the way they reach for one another, Harry feels tears coming to his eyes, and he’s glad to escape into the kitchen to make them all a hot drink.

Since they’ve had a big lunch, Harry isn’t all that hungry, and as it turns out, neither is Louis. Instead of cooking a big dinner they opt for just soup and some homemade garlic bread, that they eat in the living room, sat on the ground in front of their sofa, pressed close together.

They put on a Christmas film, though neither of them really ends up paying attention to it. Instead they talk, and while Harry expects it to be hard at first, since he doesn’t really _know_ Louis, it’s surprisingly easy. The topics veer from simple chit chat about the day to day things that they hope for their future, and somehow Harry finds himself saying all the right things, if the soft look in Louis’ eyes is any indication. The thing is, he isn’t saying anything he wouldn’t say if he were at home, in his own universe. Because all those things he tells Louis are things he wants. More children. A happy life, where they talk through every fight and always find their way back to each other. More Christmases just like this. 

By the time Louis mentions presents it’s nearly eight in the evening, and Harry has a cuddly Miles laying on his lap, who seems half asleep again but who perks up at the word. He can’t help but laugh, helps him to sit up straight while Louis heads into their bedroom to collect the presents that Harry obviously can’t remember buying. There’s a brief moment of panic when he realizes that he probably bought Louis a present and that he has no idea where it is, but by the cheeky grin on Louis’ face when he returns (and the big box with a bow that says LOUIS on it) he’s either become very bad at hiding presents or Louis knows him inside and out by this point. 

(Harry wonders if it changed, or if he still hides his presents under the pillows in the blanket box in their bedroom)

“I thought we weren’t doing presents for each other this year,” Louis chides him gently, and Harry blushes despite the fact that he’s definitely not responsible for buying him anything, but then Louis sets another, smaller box on top of the mound of presents, and shrugs a shoulder. “Good thing neither of us stuck to that plan.”

Harry grins sheepishly, basks in the soft look on Louis’ face. “What can I say,” he says softly. “I like spoiling you.” 

“You spoil me plenty on any day of the year,” Louis answers, but he still seems pleased, presses a kiss to Harry’s cheek when he sits down. Harry swears he can feel his skin tingle, and part of him is tempted to turn his head and catch Louis’ lips in a kiss, but instead he drops a kiss onto Miles’ hair. 

“It’s no more than you deserve.” He says softly, and for a moment he has to hide tears again, especially when Louis worms an arm between Harry’s back and the back of the couch, just to stroke fingertips up and down his side. “I want to give you the world,” he says, and he means it so much that there’s a part of him that wishes he would know a way to stay here, no matter the cost. But there’s a larger part of him that really honestly does love Louis enough (already) that he knows he can’t give him a better gift than his actual husband.

Most of the presents are for Miles, who is the most spoiled little boy in the world by the looks of it, because both Harry and Louis help him unwrap present after present. When they’re all unpacked and Miles is playing with a little toy truck, Harry gives Louis another sheepish grin and a shrug. “I think we went a little overboard here,” he motions towards the stack of gifts, the wrapping paper strewn all around the room because Cliff dove in it and is having himself a merry little Christmas as well. 

“When don’t we,” Louis muses, getting to his feet and heading into the kitchen to return with a bottle of wine. “I mean, I’m surprised we managed to stick to just _one_ present for each other, really, knowing what we’re like.” He chuckles, finding wine glasses and pouring them both a glass. He sits back down on the sofa, hand automatically finding its way into Harry’s hair, scratching softly at the back of his neck. “To us,” he says, holding up his glass for a toast. 

“To us,” Harry echoes, and this time he accepts the kiss that’s being brushed over his lips. 

*

After putting Miles to bed - which proves to be difficult, with all the toys he’s gotten and has yet to play with - they exchange gifts for each other. Harry had apparently bought Louis a heating seat cover for his car, which wasn’t the most romantic of gifts, but which makes Louis’ eyes soften as he whispers a sincere “thank you darling.” Harry takes the praise even if he’s not responsible for the purchase, and just smiles at him. 

“Do you like it?” He asks, and Louis smiles.

“It’s perfect. You know it is, H.” 

Harry doesn’t, but he’s more than happy to accept the praise, especially when it comes with Louis leaning comfortably against him, shoulder to shoulder feeling more intimate than anything he’s ever done in his life before. They sip contentedly from their wine for a minute, before Louis picks up the last present, the small box with Harry’s initial on it. “Merry Christmas, Harry,” he says softly, balancing the box on his hand and looking at him. “Thank you, for always being there for me. For supporting me and loving me and all that sappy stuff that you make those adorably scrunched faces over when I say it. I’m the lucky one, you know?”

Harry shakes his head, silently, can’t find his words until he’s tangled his fingers with Louis. “Both,” he manages to choke out then, and if Louis is surprised by how rough his voice sounds he doesn’t say anything about it, just smiles and squeezes his hand back. 

“Both,” he echoes, and places the little box on Harry’s knee. “I can live with that.”

Louis’ gift to Harry is something relatively small as well. There’s a couple of colours of nail polish - and when Harry looks at him, Louis just shrugs and tells him “I saw you eyeing them. Just wanted you to know I support you in everything, yeah?” like it’s _that_ simple - and a beautiful scarf that Harry at once wants to wear in his hair and maybe also wants to use in bed because he’s almost thirty but he’d have to be dead not to be interested in Louis.

His libido, long dormant since the time of easy hookups passed, is making a reappearance, if only mentally, and he tucks the scarf away with a smile, presses a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and for a moment he stays close, just breathes him in. Breathes _this_ in, this warmth in his chest that comes from love and being _home_ and it’s ridiculous because he barely knows Louis but it doesn’t feel like he’s just met him this morning. It feels like he’s known him in every reality, like all he had to do was open his eyes and see him to know his soul. Like he was literally made to love him, and it at once terrifies him and gives him hope. Because if this feels so real, doesn’t that mean that it can be, in his own reality? 

Fate can’t be that cruel to give him Louis, for just a day, can it?

*

After exchanging their gifts they cuddle on the couch for a while longer, drinking their wine and seemingly content to just hold hands. Harry’s glad for it, even if his body whispers of how good it would feel to do more than that, more than just the few chaste kisses Harry hasn’t been able to avoid -- knowing full well that he could’ve tried harder, that in reality, he allowed himself those kisses. Louis doesn’t seem to be in a rush for more though, and Harry sort of likes that, that they’re settled down enough that passion is an undercurrent in their life, not some all encompassing wave that crashes down on them and sweeps everything out of its path. He might be getting his metaphors mixed up here, or make up new ones, but he sort of likes the analogy. 

He also really likes just _being_ with Louis. His energy, his warmth, the way he leans his head back so the light catches his cheekbones when he laughs - Harry could sit and admire him for hours, if given the chance. 

But eventually the light seems too harsh for the time of night, and their wine glasses are long empty, and Louis has been yawning for long enough that Harry wonders who will be the first one to cave. He’s tired too, but not quite ready to give up on this just yet, though when Louis takes his hand and pulls him up off the couch he is ready to follow him anywhere. Even to his own empty, cold bed in his actual life.

They brush their teeth, standing side by side and taking turns spitting into the sink, and nothing about that is inherently romantic, but somehow everything is just because he’s with Louis. Louis opts for a quick shower then, and Harry checks in on Miles, who is sleeping in his toddler bed, his chubby little arms clinging to a small stuffed rabbit that they’d gifted him earlier tonight. There is so much love in Harry’s heart at seeing this little boy, _his_ little boy, that for a moment he’s left breathless, and it’s the sound of the shower running - suddenly so loud, with the door to the nursery open, and the last thing Harry wants to do is wake Miles - that startles him into moving. He briefly considers going into the room to brush a kiss over his forehead, but instead he stays by the door, drinks him in one last time. “I’m gonna miss you, kiddo,” he whispers, and to his own surprise he sounds a little choked up. “I hope I’ll get to see you again someday.” 

He wonders if it’d be easier if he just left, but since he has no idea how he actually traveled into this universe, he also doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of it, except by falling asleep like he’d done the night before. So he strips off his clothes and slides under the covers, hissing at the cold sheets enveloping his skin. It feels fitting though, because despite the giant dog that curls up on their foot end straight after Harry’s gotten into bed, he feels lonely. Because he knows that this isn’t his to hold onto, that the moment he closes his eyes he’ll have to say goodbye, and the worst thing is, he can’t do it except for in his own head, because Louis wouldn’t understand. Knowing that there’s all this grief inside of him and no way to pour it all out, it makes Harry feel a bit weepy. 

He listens intently, as the shower turns off and Louis is moving about in the bathroom. He hadn’t realized just how comforting it could be, the sound of having someone else in his house. Of it being lived in, a place filled with love and the sense of _home_. Harry had never quite understood the sentiment that home wasn’t a place, but he thinks he gets it now. It makes him dread going back all the more, because his house is no longer going to be a home. His house is going to be devoid of anything that makes it feel warm and cozy, and even though technically Louis has never been in his house in his universe, Harry knows it’s not going to matter. His heart knows the truth now, had seen a glimpse of what could have been if Harry had just taken a different path in his life, and he hates his past self for messing up the best thing that would’ve ever happened to him. 

He doesn’t know why he does it, but when Louis comes into the bedroom, Harry keeps his eyes closed, and when he slides into bed with him and touches a warm hand to his waist, he doesn’t move. “Darling?” Louis whispers, and it’s so so hard to stay quiet and pretend he’s fallen asleep. He thinks there’s no way Louis can possibly buy into it, not when he knows him so well, but rather than having him tickle Harry and tell him he knows he’s awake, Louis just chuckles and brushes a kiss over his cheek. “God, I love you,” he murmurs, and the fact that he’s saying that not because he thinks Harry can hear him but just because it’s so true there’s no way he can hold it in _really_ makes Harry want to cry.

Instead he stays quiet and relaxed and Louis cuddles up with him and wraps an arm around his waist and somehow, despite the lump in his throat that threatens to overwhelm anything else, Harry falls asleep.

*

Of course he wakes up alone. 

Harry isn’t surprised, or so he tells himself, but there’s this big lump still in his throat and this hole in his chest and his feet are cold because there’s no giant dog at the end of the bed that’s flopped over his feet. 

There’s no warm body wrapped around him and no baby room - Harry checks, but _of course_ it’s just the guest room, and Harry’s always liked that guest room but now he hates it. He hates the calendar that just has his name on it, and he hates how his phone has a picture of Gemma’s twins instead of Louis and Miles.

It feels wildly unfair because Gemma’s twins are wonderful and perfect and Harry shouldn’t think mean things about them so he looks at his phone again, out of some sort of self chastisement or maybe just because their sweet faces are always going to make him feel better no matter what.

And that’s when he sees it. The small date, easily overlooked by the larger display of the time on his lockscreen.

December 25th.

There’s a part of him that feels sort of relieved, because if it’s December 25th then that means he hasn’t lost a day and that also means that alternate universe Harry hasn’t missed Christmas with his family. But then that weight drops back in his stomach and he feels nauseous, because that doesn’t mean that at all. It means Louis was a dream after all, a figment of his imagination, so perfect that he couldn’t possibly exist in real life. 

So much for fate. So much for this meaning something, somehow, which was the one small thing that Harry had held onto when he woke up alone.

Harry sort of wants to throw up, and a very large part of him wants to go straight back to bed and sleep, but dreams betray him, apparently, and while he’d love to go back to sleep and wake up next to Louis it’s not like he can sleep the rest of his life away. Besides, there’s no guarantee he’d actually ever dream about him again, and that thought hurts, because he’s already feeling like he’s losing the tenuous grasp he had on his memories of him. 

Staying inside seems like a wonderful plan though, because it’s not like he can explain why he’s feeling so upset, and he really doesn’t feel like facing anyone today. But that poses a problem, because it’s December 25th, and that means he’s got Christmas lunch at his mum’s house in just a couple of hours. As much as he’d love to skip it, he knows she’d be terribly upset - if understanding, because his mum’s always been understanding, even about the things Harry can’t put into words - and there’s already enough hurt in Harry’s world right now, he doesn't want to be the cause of more, even if part of him wants everyone to hurt as bad as he is. 

So reluctantly he drags himself into the shower, and reluctantly he makes himself breakfast - pancakes with chocolate and fresh fruit because apparently he is a masochist - even though everything tastes like cardboard and Harry is in the least Christmassy mood ever, which is highly unfair because Harry _loves_ Christmas and why did his stupid brain have to ruin his favorite holiday? He already knew he wanted a family, he didn’t need some stupid dream that’s left him feeling like that one girl in the Antman and the Wasp movie, phasing in and out and feeling like his entire body is made up of pain.

Yes, he’s being dramatic, but he feels like he’s allowed to be, when the boy of his dreams has turned out to be exactly that.

Everything about his body feels heavy, right down to breathing. Every breath is a struggle and Harry is well aware that it’s ridiculous, that there’s no way his body can literally miss someone so much that it’s struggling to function, but he looks at himself in the mirror and tries to paste on a smile so that the people he loves don’t realize something is wrong and the muscles in his face protest like they’re as tired and weary as Harry feels. 

“Snap out of it,” he tells his reflection, but his reflection just looks sad. Harry sighs. “You’re thirty,” he tries again, as though reasoning with his reflection is a sensible thing to do. “Your life isn’t over. Who knows what might be just around the corner.”

 _It won’t be Louis_. He dismisses the thought as soon as it enters his brain, but it’s too late, and his reflection almost looks like it’s daring him to argue. Harry doesn’t, because his reflection isn’t real and there’s no point in trying to win an argument with himself.

Eventually, fifteen minutes late which might not be much for some people but is highly unusual for Harry, who prefers being early and is always punctual, Harry musters up the drive to leave the apartment. He locks his door, gathers up the stack of presents that he’s put on the doormat, glad that he can navigate the hallways of his apartment building by memory alone, as he might have just gone a bit overboard with presents for the twins, and he might or might not be able to see over the stack of presents in his arms. 

All the same, he takes it slow, managing to get about halfway down the hall until something in front of his feet trips him up and he goes down, presents flying everything and a gasp somehow managing to startle him as he tries to catch himself. He ends up with a sore wrist for his effort, and what he’s pretty sure is a skinned knee, and if it hadn’t been for the gasp - and Harry would’ve thought he was alone - he’s pretty sure he would’ve actually started crying. 

He’s close still, there are definite tears in his eyes as he sits up, cradling his hand to his chest, and looking around for the culprit, which turns out to be a suitcase, inexplicably in the middle of the hallway. _Who the fuck leaves a suitcase out in the middle of a hallway?_

He might’ve said that out loud, because there’s a sheepish chuckle to his left. “Me.” A voice says, and Harry scowls. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t - I’ve been trying to move in, and, did you ever feel like you don’t know how much shit you have until you’re moving, and then it’s like, what the fuck do I do with all of this?” 

Harry does, but he’s feeling contrary, so he’s about to say no when his apparently new neighbour crouches down by his side, coming into Harry’s line of sight. “I’m really sorry,” new neighbour says, and for a moment Harry just gapes at him. 

_Louis_.

How?

Has he hit his head? Has he fallen down hard enough that he’s actually unconscious, and dreaming again? Is he actually lying down on a filthy carpet in his apartment building, with presents strewn around him and no one around to witness just how pathetic his life has become? 

“Are you okay?” It’s tentative, and Harry glances down, at where he’s still cradling his wrist to his chest. “Fuck. This is not the way I expected to meet my new neighbour.” There’s a soft, raspy laugh. “Though, I have to admit, it’s unfortunately a bit true to character.” Harry drinks in that laugh, that sheepish smile on Louis’ face. He swallows. “I’m Louis. Do you need help?”

Harry probably looks like he does. He probably looks like a bit of an idiot, sat here on the floor, unable to say anything. Louis probably thinks he’s hit his head after all. Or that he’s a bit weird, and that - Harry doesn’t want Louis to think that he’s weird. He wants him to think that he’s wonderful. He wants him to move in with him and marry him and have a baby called Miles Tomlinson-Styles. 

(Harry isn’t going to say that, because that _would_ make Louis think that Harry is weird)

“Harry,” he manages, and it’s not much but it is a start, and Louis smiles in response, something less sheepish and more earnest. “I’m Harry. Hi.”

“Harry.” Louis says, and he smiles. “Hi Harry.”

“Hi Louis.” Harry wracks his brain, desperate to keep the conversation going. “I don’t like your suitcase.” Though, without it he would’ve passed through the hallway unscathed, and maybe not have bumped into his new neighbour after all. “I mean. It’s nice to meet you. But.” He holds up his wrist. “Ow.” He frowns. “Why are you moving in on Christmas?”

Louis chuckles. “I’m not. I mean, I am. Sort of? It was my birthday yesterday, and I was at my mum’s, and she gave me all these things to put in my place, and since I’m having a bit of a Christmas party at my old place and this was all in the way I figured I’d drop it off before going back - my old roommate, him and his boyfriend are moving into the apartment together, which is why I’m moving, not that you care, but, like. Yeah. Do you know what I mean?”

Harry does not know what Louis means. He doesn’t know much of anything at the moment. Except for that his wrist hurts and his knee throbs and Louis is rambling and frazzled and easily the most beautiful person Harry has ever seen. “Oh,” he says, because it feels like he should say something. And it’s better than ‘ _I think I dreamt about you last night and now I’m not sure if you’re real or if I’m still dreaming’_. “Welcome to the building?” That seems like a good thing to say. “Or. You’re not really moving in yet. So. When are you moving in?” This is an odd conversation to have, sitting down in the middle of the hallway, but Louis has shifted to sit down next to him, and Harry really doesn’t care about how odd this is, because odd means real and real means that Louis exists and is in Harry’s actual life. 

“Next couple of days,” Louis tells him, and the way he runs his hand through his hair is mesmerizing. “Liam and Zayn - Zayn’s my old roommate - sort of want to start the new year off together which is horribly soppy and I would rather choke than admit to them that I kind of love it, but yeah, I’m probably going to be moving in before New Years.” 

New Years. New beginnings. 

“If you’re not doing anything-” Louis probably has plans, has friends, people that aren’t complete strangers, but Harry can’t stop himself for the life of it. “I’m having a little party on New Year’s Eve. You’re welcome to stop by. Say hi. Meet some of the other neighbours without making them literally fall for you.” 

Harry really should’ve stopped himself, or at least corrected that horrible choice of words, but Louis just laughs, and Harry might be halfway in love with the crinkles by his eyes already, but at least he has the clarity of mind to not say that. 

“I mean,” Louis starts, “if I’d have to make anyone fall for me, I’d much rather it’s you than Mrs Volvic from down the hall. Do you know what I mean?”

Harry nods. “She’d probably break a hip.” He says.

Louis snorts. “That too.” He agrees, and something in his eyes makes Harry’s heart skip. What was it that Louis in the alternate universe had said? _What we have, darling, that’s fate. I’d find you in any universe, and not let you go in a single one._

Maybe fate is a thing after all.

\--epilogue--

Harry doesn't tell him for the longest time. Not on New Years, when Louis stops by and there's this _moment_ , right when the clock counts down but neither of them have the courage to take that step.

Not on their first date, months later, after Harry had all but resigned himself to just being his friend, before Louis had made his intentions clear with a kiss in the middle of a wrestling match for the remote.

Not when they move in together, into Harry's apartment, because its balcony was just slightly bigger and Louis still smoked too much but Harry still loved him too much to care.

Not on their wedding day either, when Harry gets to sign with his new signature, officially changing his last name to Tomlinson-Styles.

He finally tells him on a random Tuesday, a day where nothing happens and yet they find themselves in bed, talking through their day, fingers tangled and bodies pressed together from head to toe.

He tells him because they're talking about that next step, about adoption or finding a surrogate, and Harry knows he might not ever have that little boy that he'd met over four years ago in his arms again, and the sadness must show on his face because Louis lifts his chin and whispers "Hey?"

He tells him because Louis deserves to know and is quite literally the only person he trusts not to judge him or think him crazy.

He tells him and Louis kisses him, fierce and _real_ and tells him "thank you for telling me," and all Harry can think is _no, thank **you** for finding me._

He wants to ask him if he thinks Miles will find them too, like Cliff had, but he knows what Louis' answer will be. To trust in fate, and Harry knows he's right. 

Because fate, Harry learns a year and a bit later when they first meet their baby boy, works its magic across any universe. 

He only has to take one look at him to see the resemblance, even right there in baby form, and when he holds him in his arms, sees those familiar eyes looking up at him, he has to swallow back tears. "Hi baby. Hi Miles. Welcome home."

He briefly thinks back on that one morning, all those years ago, when he landed himself somewhere completely unexpected. He now knows that it was exactly the path his life was meant to take, that without it he wouldn't have had this internal peace that came with knowing they were meant to work out. That peace that has carried him through all the difficult moments in and surrounding their relationship. 

It has carried him _home_ , where he belongs, with Louis and Miles and Cliff. With Christmas mornings that he wakes up with a warm body in his bed and a soft cry coming from down the hall. And this time, all of it is his to keep.

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> If you've liked this fic, please consider reblogging the [moodboard](https://so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed.tumblr.com/post/189413829668/1dchristmasfest-youve-set-my-soul-to-dreaming) on Tumblr!


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